Trumpetino

The Colosseum!

Sturmgewehr said
Why do Derpestien and Trumpetino think my character is italian? I've seen that in their IC posts. There's nothing italian about Aleksey. He's ukrainian. I even said in his Bio that he was born in Odessa, Ukraine.

Same reason as the other guy. Wilson was in mental limbo during the information announcements, and Aleskesy looks like a guido to him.

The Colosseum!

Jesus Christ, boss. Where do they get these people?

He glanced first to Grace, finding her reply unbearably cheesy and Kyle's unbearably edgy. He decided Kyle's response was the worst of the two, and glanced towards him with unimpressed contempt.

"Jesus, are you even listenin' to what yer sayin'? Guess nobody suspects a fool 'till he opens his damn mouth."

Wilson was honestly staggered to imagine that they thought there was a fair fight ahead. The fight was anything but fair - did they suspect that their smaller size would lend them some kind of an advantage? Oh, fer chrissake's, he thought, and decided to continue the thought verbally - half meant to keep his mind off of the impending combat, and half to put a little rain on the two's parade.

"You kids know you're too small to be doin' this, don'tcha? Watch too many goddamn karate movies. You ain't got the advantage 'cuz you're smaller. You ain't got the muscle mass or the bone density." He cracked a lopsided grin, glancing between Kyle and Grace with shifty eyes under his floppy cowboy hat - the only notable piece of appearal, outside of his prison tatters. "You see that little girl just down the way? Weighs as much as a twig? She'll be the first to go, I promise you. It ain't about speed - it's about momentum. And you ain't got no momentum without either of those things. That lil' girl throwin' a punch would be like tossin' a rat at rhinocerous."

He shakes his head, not mocking them but speaking matter-of-factly "You lot ain't gonna snuff easy, that's for sure." He glances sidelongs at Grace. "You're gonna snuff real, real hard."

Raguel's List

Is it too late to join? I absolutely love the time period and subject matter you're going with. I'm already writing a book based on the same kind of thing (except it's from the POV of one of these war criminals in Africa) and I'd absolutely love to participate, if at all possible.

The Colosseum!

Discomforting numbness pumped through Wilson Wredrun as he was wheeled out into the Colosseum. For a moment, amidst the hazy groggle of disjointed thoughts, he feared that he'd been pumped with anti-psychotics and muscle relaxants. Someone's out to get you, boss, his brain growled at him, Book it, or you'll die in this joint. HIs fingers leapt into action, and mindlessly gripped the bars of his cage with his meaty, calloused fingers. The clean steel felt alien to grime-caked fingers, having subsisted in filth and squalor prior to today.

Today! Today! Today!

Today, he was going to die. No, someone was going to die. Yeah. He'd kill someone and they'd die, and he'd go right on home to the gym, and stop by his favorite burger joint afterwards and shoot the shit with the manager and go home with a big juicy burger in his gut while he watched re-runs of the Three Stooges. Then he'd chortle down a shot of whiskey and go to sleep with an ecstatic buzz, and dream of the clear blue sky. Yeah.

Nah. That's not how life works anymore, boss. His brain reached out to him again, and a slight urgency seeped into him as he finally blinked. No, he hadn't been drugged - he'd lost track of the time, and it just snowballed until he lost his self-awareness somewhere along the way. The gears of his mind began to grind, and suddenly he heard his name among flashing lights and a cheering crowd.

"Next up is Wilson Wredrun. He is 39 years old, 5'9", and 260 pounds..."

There it was. All of the haze cleared out in an instant - he could feel the bars, smell the squalor, hear the roar, and taste the blood. Everything seemed over-saturated and sharp, like he'd just experienced an adrenaline rush for waking up He blinked his large, thoughtful eyes, and glanced about him.

They! They! They!

He understood at once that the people beside and across from him were his opponents. His equals, so to speak - only they carried the distinction of being paraded around like a zoo animal. The first one, Grace, caught his eye. She reminded him of the ice sculptures he used to carve, as a younger man, during the winter - fragile and easy on the eyes, but liable to break when thrown around.

Then he looked to Kyle, and Ken, and it suddenly occurred to him that all of these people were small and fragile. It staggered his mind for a moment - had he lost so much weight, to be paired up with these little twigs posing as killers of men? He squeezed the bars in his grip, and felt his powerful muscles tighten around his dense bones, and he knew that he hadn't. Glancing across from him, he saw much of the same - so light! So small! So...

Except for that one. What was he? Italian? You don't know shit. You missed all his info while you was hazed up, boss.. Fine, let's assume he's Italian, smart-ass. He looked fit, and strong, and young, and Wilson strongly felt that he was the only threatening presence on the field. He had muscles, but he wasn't porky like Wilson, or old. Wilson had slipped out of his prime almost ten years ago, and this guy looked rife with tightly-packed energy under all that skin.

Jesus. Only one fair fight among all these folks? Why all of the small-fries? Are they just lambs to the slaughter, appetizers for the two big bad wolves?

At long last, Wilson turned his thoughts and feelings into words - audible for those in the cells near him, though not directed at them.

"Jesus. This ain't a brawl. It's a goddamn snuff film, and me and him's the stars."

The Colosseum!

Yeesh. Wilson is like two whole weight classes above Aiden. I'm not a dick; not going to be like "lel guess i win automatically" or roleplay like that, but he's already in some dire straits.

The Colosseum!

Name: Wilson Wredrun
Age: 39
Height: 5'9"
Weight: 260 lbs
Looks:

Crime: Hit and Run + First Degree Murder
History: Wilson Wredrun was a limo driver for a respected California senator, Jennifer Lynne, who had helped the Colosseum become a legal enterprise when the legislation came around. Wilson never really cared for politics - he only drove so he could afford his gym membership. He was a very healthy man, with a hearty appetite, and spent almost all of his free time working out. He didn't really know why, but exercise was the perfect mental and physical release for all of his frustration. Watching his progress made him feel productive, and being strong lent him a great deal of confidence. He was a humble, simple, and happy man.

The problem came on WIlson's 39th birthday, on the 21st of June. While driving Mrs. Lynne home from a speech, a traffic accident occurred in the intersection ahead of him. When he swerved to avoid it, he plowed through a fourteen year old boy who had been waiting to cross the street. Terrified and out of his wits, Wilson quickly sped home with the screaming senator in the backseat. In the confusion of the accident, he was not followed, nor was his license plate noted. Arriving at Mrs. Lynne's home, he staggered out of the car in a haze. The senator emerged and began screaming at him, with tear-filled eyes, and calling him a murderer and a coward and a hundred other things in her own hysteria - mostly concerned that the hit and run would be blamed on her, as media politics usually go. Deliriously, she began to claw and beat at his face. Wilson, already under a tremendous deal of mental duress, clocked her in the face so hard that a splinter of her nose bone shot up deeper into her head. She fell, with some bone pierced into the front of her skull, and Wilson fell upon her with his hickory tire knocker (a stick of wood with a steel shaft in the center), beating her face in until it began a bloody smush, with her lower jaw nearly cracked in half and mangy clumps of bloody hair on his hands and arms.

A neighbor called the police, and Wilson was arrested. He was placed into the Colosseum program, in honor of Mrs. Lynne. He was not given a mental evaluation, and it was not found that Wilson was now struggling with post traumatic stress disorder. His first few weeks were numb and distant, but after his first few bouts in the Colosseum, the PTSD began to evolve into a complete mental deadening where his compassion was. He didn't feel any consequence for killing, anymore - he didn't relish in it, but it never bothered him ever again. Now, fighting for his life is his new 'exercise' - the only thing to keep him feeling productive, and sane.

Specialty: Wilson possesses great strength and endurance, and can easily kill anyone with his raw strength, unarmed, if given the upper hand in a close quarters fight. He lacks training or finesse for real combat and techniques.